He and She
by lifeundecided
Summary: They're kindred spirits, two halves of one mind. He's alone in the world save the voices in his head; she's alone in the world save the words on her page. They would be Romeo and Juliet, if they ever had a chance to meet.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Chapters will alternate between Tate and Violet's perspective, and each one will be reasonably short, but I hope to post a lot of them...this is my first fanfic, so thank you for reading!_

Violet

Ben Harmon, Violet knew, had a taste for the dramatic. He did not, however, seem to have any respect for her privacy. His footsteps alone announced his presence, as he forced open her bedroom door-  
"Violet, I can smell the smoke from my office. This home is a healthy, toxin free environment. You may prefer tobacco to oxygen, but your mother does not. Nor do the twins."  
"Imagining the smell of smoke is the first sign of a brain tumour, Dad. You of all people should know that."  
Ben's mouth formed a hard line, but Violet simply rolled her eyes and motioned for her father to close the door behind him, reaching to remove her ashtray from behind her bedside book collection. They lived in LA for Christ's sake. Smogsville.

It had been a year since the Harmon family had literally trucked into LA, making their home on a quiet suburban street, fit for a quiet suburban family. Since then, her parents had welcomed three children into the world: Vivien's tiny twins, and her father's vow-shattering, gossip-sparking, student-spawned second daughter. The irony, of course, had not escaped Violet's notice. Ben was blessed with two perfect sons and two daughters, ugly bookends to the perfect Harmon fraction.

Physically, emotionally, Violet was the odd one out. She felt more kinship with the 'unfortunate incident' her father had caused than her parents or twin brothers. Vivien was a curvy redhead, with a passion for music and all things natural; her father a blue eyed, dark haired lover of whiskey and underage women.

Violet, on the other hand, favoured layers and sweaters and Converse and Nirvana and Marlboros and quiet solitude in the Boston corridors she called home. Ben called her Sparrow when she was little: a tiny, serious brown bird, just like his daughter. All hazel eyes and dirty blonde hair and harsh angles.

Young Violet had loved the name, reading book upon book on birds, always the first to the top of the slide, flapping her arms and imagining the rush of flight. These days, she scoffed at the name. A social bird, symbol of lust? Sure Dad. Compare that to Violet at sixteen, confined to her bedroom full of Russian novels and cigarette smoke and virgin skin.

Los Angeles, with the unrelenting sun and smog and bougie designer bullshit her classmates thrived on, smothered her. In ten months of classes, she had visited the emergency room more times than her mother's nerves could cope with. Violet had been forced to fight her way out of the school gates too many times that year. Thus, she was given an ultimatum. Her father's fierce little girl refused to run from bullies, but would face banishment to an all girl's boarding school within the month, if she did not fall into line.

As if refusing to fight would force Leah and her entourage off her back.


	2. Chapter 2

Tate

His mother was always muttering about how the mongoloids would be the death of her. Tate, for his part, hoped it was true. The perfect payback for the years of suffering she had inflicted on her children; she wanted them dead, and they would drive her to her grave. For eighteen years he had stood by and watched his siblings treated like animals in her care, or lack thereof, while Constance doted on her perfect, beautiful, psychopath son. Anyone would be surprised that such a well rounded, polite young man could have such dark, disturbing desires. It was poetic, in Tate's eyes. He was Macbeth, driven to unforgivable deeds by the harpy who sought to control him. He was Othello, driven by righteous anger. He was Romeo, seeking paradise beyond this world of destruction and horror. He was Lear, driven mad with no one to love him, untrusting and insane.

In reality, he was Tate Langdon, track star, AP student, closet psychopath, and Keats enthusiast. Who was, at this moment, fumbling around his bedroom in a predawn haze, searching for his other running shoe. The voices had been particularly bad last night; he was fixated by the idea of himself, Leah, a set of his and hers lines of coke on his nightstand. The voices were riotous. The girlfriend was a phone call away. She would come, like she always does, equally drawn by Tate and the promise of a high. And he would use one of Constance's kitchen knives to-

No. Running. He hadn't run on pavement for god knows how long, too used to the school track, and the ever present worry that someone would notice his shredded wrists, impossible to hide under a track uniform. He was one of the best loved guys at his school, he had a steady girlfriend who earned covetous looks from his classmates every time they were seen in school together, but none of it moved him. His peers - heads stuffed with the pretentious bullshit this town shoved down your throat from the second you emerged from your mother's surgically altered vagina - made him sick. His role as boyfriend and arm candy, was in reality, that of a glorified dealer.

Most girls in high school expected boys, like him; dealers, like him, to be a little more easy going about payment. Once they gave him a look of their vulgar clothes and vast expanses of tanned skin. It seemed to Tate that this was yet another role he had to carry off. It was a chore, but he was a good actor. He didn't really know if he actually had a genuine personality, underneath all the layers of high school cliche he swaddled himself in.

The only place he could be free, the only way to make the voices go away, was the track.

As he set off running, Tate revelled in the early morning hues, stained a violent pink by sunrise and smog. He knew he was running far too fast - he would be winded within ten minutes - but he simply followed the pavement, which he knew would someday lead him out of that madhouse, and-


	3. Chapter 3

Violet

Violet had seriously come to resent her parents. If not for the fact they dragged her out to LA in a desperate attempt to save their marriage, they had created the perfect antidote to a decent night's sleep: bawling twins. It was five am. Three hours to kill before Monday officially started. An hour at most to shower, get dressed, eat - _drink and smoke -_ breakfast, and two hours left over. More precious time to spend alone in the darkness of her bedroom. Violet was an introvert in the purest sense of the word. Interaction with other people was difficult for her, not due in any part to shyness or intimidation, but the exhausting feeling that no-one understood how she thought, what she said. She spent her time alone, because explaining her every action to a world which couldn't think for itself was a waste of breath. High school, Violet knew, was just a blip on her timeline.

Most people, when they met Violet, saw her clothes, expected an awkward, graceless teen; she surprised adults with her own brand of contained elegance. Her every movement was an absolute necessity - her emotion, impossible to decipher in her face, could be measured by her degree of stillness. Violet Harmon was, in a word, sparse. Because she ran. Her teachers in Boston praised her on stamina, surprising in such a small girl; her determination lent itself to gruelling distances measured by zeros; her peak lay in the thousands, not hundreds. Twenty minutes after hauling herself out of bed, Violet was dressed in a peculiar combination of running gear and sweaters. Though she knew she would be alone at this hour, she couldn't risk returning home to another lecture, another razor blade raid.

That was the sole reason Violet didn't run in LA: she couldn't risk people (Leah) seeing the scars. It would only give them fresh ways to torment her. She had started cutting at the green age of fourteen: two years later, she was a veteran. Adept with a blade and a bottle and a bandage (Violet loved the sting of the alcohol almost as much as the cut itself), Violet's arms were a mess of eerily uniform lines. Red and pink and white, like roses. Her classmates and teachers wouldn't see the beauty in them: only the horror of social stigma, whispers of depression and suicide. No track for sad little Vi.

Her parents knew the score by now, and did not look up from their own morning routine with the twins. Down the stairs, out of the side door in the basement to best set up her morning route... Past her neighbour's house (the fading Southern Belle by name of Constance), to find a light on upstairs - although Violet couldn't imagine why the old bat would be up at this hour - and off, for an hour of almost fresh air and pavements she wished could lead her all the way home to Boston. Or maybe she would just ask for a pair of ruby red sneakers and be done with it.

After five minutes of steady pacing, she began to hear heavy footfall coming up fast behind her, and when she turned, could make out the frame of a man coming towards her. Violet's immediate thought was completely calm: they always say the bodies are found by dog walkers and runners. She looked around her, checking for non-existent cars she might flag, and-

"Violet! Slow down!" At the sound of her father's voice Violet breathed a sigh of relief. "What, dad, what could possibly be so important you had to disturb the little peace I get from the madhouse?"  
"Violet, look at me. Sparrow, you have to come with me, right now. It's Jeffrey, he... We have to go to the hospital, right now. Your mother took Michael in the ambulance, but we have to go, now."  
The fear in her father's eyes shook Violet to the core; she didn't speak, just took off in the opposite direction, towards the car, towards the baby brother she never took the chance to know, would never get the chance to know.


	4. Chapter 4

Tate

"Jesus, Leah, what is it?" Tate snarled into his phone; the girlfriend had ripped him out of his reverie.  
"I was wondering, you know, if you had anything... left over since last time? I mean, I have a Calculus test today and it's my mother's birthday, whole family thing, I just... I need something to get me through the day..."  
"I can bring it in, meet me at your locker before first hour, but Christ, Leah, it's six am!"  
"Of course, yeah, sorry Tate, I..."  
"Whatever." He shut off his phone, tempted to crush it underfoot. He turned back around, away from the sunrise that had soothed his nerves... For a time. Back to Constance. He turned the corner, decided to come round the back of the house, hoping to avoid Constance's questioning glare. Vaulting over the back fence, he heard a woman's scream from next door: the Murder House. Maybe it had claimed another victim. Tate struggled to contain his smirk.

If the flashing lights at the front of the house were anything to go by, he was right. Maybe the family would move out, leave it empty for good. The Langdon family had lived there a while, when Tate was only six: his father had still been present and correct, his mother's drinking kept in check by her desperation to claw him back into the house each night. The tourist guides claimed the house was haunted, evil. The evil, in Tate's mind, had followed him next door, under the guise of a proud Virginia housewife.

He moved through the machinations of morning habits in a daze: Addie hadn't woken up yet, so he had no reason to fake a smile, pretend to eat, pretend he wasn't bone tired, anger rising.

Last month, on the tail end of a high and seven shots of vodka, he had totalled his car less than 100 yards from his driveway; he was forced to make the half hour walk to school every morning, until he could pay for a new car himself... He could more than afford it, but it wouldn't do to make his enterprises too obvious. As far as his mother knew, he didn't have a job, nor was he likely to amount to anything in the future. No matter how many AP classes he aced, no matter how many times he came home sinking under the weight of track medals, his mother took no notice.

The ugly square visage of Westfield's front entrance loomed before Tate, reminding him once again of a prison, an asylum. How odd, that he belonged in an institution, but suffocated in Westfield's grubby halls. All Tate ever wanted was to find a place, somewhere clean, above the vomit and the piss that ran in the streets of this world. That place was not here.


	5. Chapter 5

Violet

A week had passed since the night at the hospital. What haunted Violet most was how Jeffrey could be sleeping, if not for the pale, frigid, dead looking skin. Sudden infant death syndrome. The funeral had been quiet, just family, and Hayden, with her own perfectly healthy baby on her hip.

Vivien couldn't look at her.

Ben was, of course, beginning to get worried. His wife was grieving, but this wasn't normal, wasn't healthy. She had all but abandoned Michael, started saying that something was wrong with her remaining baby; Wednesday, he wasn't Ben's son. Thursday, Michael was the antichrist. Friday, they had recorded the wrong death: this baby was Jeffrey, Michael was the one in the box.

This was the day Violet had to go back to the hellhole: Westfield. Back to Leah. High as a kite, pretty as Barbie, twisted as a corkscrew. The few people at Westfield Violet had ever spoken to said she used to be a sweet girl, now forced into bitchhood by her mystery boyfriend. This guy was supposedly a loaded gun, temper always just below the surface, violently competitive on the track... and loved by her whole class. Violet had never seen the guy, partly due to the fact she barely showed up for school.

Five minutes after the bell rang, there was a knock on the door of her English class, "Mr. Warwick, could I speak to Violet Harmon please? She won't be five minutes."  
Violet ducked her head, and walked slowly to the door; she couldn't stand this state school brand of pseudo-affection. Miss Short, the school's guidance councillor, was like something out of a forties movie: soft curled black hair and red lips and seams on her stockings. Seriously.

Before Miss Short started her spiel, Violet noticed a tall boy walking towards them, cigarette in his mouth, who then stopped abruptly, an odd expression across his face.  
"Now Violet, I just wanted to remind you that I stay on late after school every day except Thursday, and my door is always open. I can only imagine how hard it is to lose someone so young, so close to you..."  
Violet could only guess that this boy was ditching, and Short hadn't noticed him yet, but was bound to in a matter of seconds. Let this be her one good deed this year. She looked up into Short's face, hand over her mouth - "You have no idea, Miss Short, I mean, have you ever seen a-" her voice cracked, "-a baby coffin? It's sick, all white and clean and tiny..." The teacher rushed to pat her back, turning away from the boy, who was trying unsuccessfully to conceal himself in a doorway.  
"I'm so sorry... Do you mind if I stay out here a couple minutes? I just want to have a chance to clean myself up, a few minutes alone." Short nodded sympathetically, a sad smile on her face, and left Violet to 'clean herself up'.

As soon as Short rounded the corner, Violet strode toward the door that had previously concealed the truant. Who had vanished.

Annoyed, Violet started back towards her English classroom, reaching out for the handle; only to find that someone had beaten her to it.


	6. Chapter 6

Tate

Chemistry, Tate decided, was just not his thing. The only reason he wasn't failing was because Mrs Montgomery (a pathetic woman, always droning on about her son, forever forgetting names, and often, to come to class at all) doted on him. He could sit at the back of the class and smoke pot for all she cared - he got his A every semester. He had actually tried it a couple of times: going to class high. It certainly wasn't as boring as usual, but the confines of a classroom were a waste of a decent joint.

Skip out while the teacher's in the supply closet; get his cigarettes from his locker; make his way out through emergency door in the English corridor; get to the beach. Simple. However, he hadn't counted on Short to block his path. God, she was talking to another student, probably another one of Leah's victims. Sometimes, he kind of liked his girlfriend.

The girl met his eyes: a tiny girl, probably a freshman, bawling all over Short's vintage skirt suit. Or was she? Those were definitely tears, but nothing else about her said weepy teen drama queen. She was dressed like something out of a grandmother's wardrobe: at least four layers, even in this heat. She looked out of place in these grey halls.

Something in her tone made Tate aware that Short was taking her cue to leave; he emerged from his slipshod hiding place, hastily adopted, and skirted round her as she wiped her eyes.

"What's with the crocodile tears, little girl?"  
"Shit! You make a habit of that, jumping out at people? I would have expected better, especially since I just saved your ass from detention..." The girl turned her face to his (she was smaller than he had first thought - she couldn't be older than sixteen), one eyebrow raised.  
"I'm walking down the hallway with cigarette in hand, in the middle of the day, and you think I give a shit about detention?" Tate had become practiced in nonchalance and quick wit, even if he had been caught off guard by this girl. There was something in the way she stood, in the way her cardigan hung off her tiny, straight frame.  
"Lucky you. Now if you'll excuse me, some of us can't get caught ditching again-"  
"Wait! I don't even know the name of my... Good Samaritan, shall we call it?"  
"Violet. Harmon. Who is going to class now."  
"Tate. Langdon. Who is wondering why he's never seen you before. Want a smoke?"  
Violet rolled her eyes - it was all Tate could do not to laugh - "To the first, I'm not surprised: I've only been here eight months, and I barely show up. To the second, fine. It's not like I haven't read that book ten times already..." She trailed off, holding her hand out for the cigarette. She leaned in to take a light, holding her hair out of the way - long, dark blonde; something Tate could imagine wrapped around his fingers, his wrist.

"So, Violet Harmon, what did Short want from you? She catch you doing something you shouldn't have? Someone?"

"No, the usual, reminding me her door is always open... As if I want grief counselling from her. If my father can't support his own family in a time of need, they should have never given him the fancy shrink's diploma. My brother... Cot death. They didn't even notice he had stopped breathing till he had been dead a half hour."

"I lost my brother too... A couple years ago. It's ok now though. I set the guy who killed him on fire."


	7. Chapter 7

Violet

She could have sworn she felt her heart stutter. His words held her there, too afraid to move or breathe; her own white face reflected back in eyes like ink. Like a starless sky. Violet thought if only she let go of the linoleum beneath her feet, she would... fall.  
"Are you serious?"  
This boy had the face of an angel; a golden Lucifer. His lazy smile confirmed what she already knew: it didn't matter if he really had set that man alight; if he wanted to, he would.

Tate moved slowly - not as if he was nervous, but as if he was savouring her reaction. He leaned in toward her, holding her gaze, as he brushed her hair behind her ear. "Goodbye, Violet Harmon." he whispered. Her breath hitched, and her eyelids fluttered closed. When she opened her eyes, a second later, he was gone.

Had today been any other day, Violet would be eating in the library. Today, however, the shit just kept coming. The librarian knew her only too well, but he was away on some course, according to the stand in. Who was completely anal. As if she was going to spray crumbs on the school's precious volumes? It wasn't like they had anything special; encyclopedias and paperbacks in little plastic straight jackets. So today, Violet was relegated to the courtyard. At present, she was sitting on a brick wall inside an alcove, desperate to avoid the stares of her peers. She doubted her chances of getting away with a cigarette, but she hadn't had one since that morning in the hallway with the arsonist. Tate. Violet inhaled deeply, relishing the curling smoke as she breathed out.

"What do we have here? Harmon, smoking again... You know what Leah would say if she saw that, right? Maybe we should _stub it out_ before she gets here." Grace, Leah's right hand tormentor, lunged for Violet, who threw the cigarette into the bushes, far from her reach; after the first time Violet had put out her cigarette on Leah's arm, they had adopted her method of dirty fighting. Grabbing her bag, Violet leapt from her seat on the wall, and sprinted off. She may be better with long distances, but when she put her mind to it, she could really _fly_. Pushing her way through the crowds, heading toward the girls' bathroom. Once inside, she breathed a sigh of relief. They'd never think to look here. This bathroom may as well be out of order; it was dingy, half the taps were broken and the only mirror was cracked. The joys of state schooling. Violet went to the sink, bracing herself against its sturdy porcelain surface. She wanted to mar it, to drop her blood onto the whiteness, watch it blossom. She wanted a razor.

Her breathing had quieted, but she still heard ragged breaths... coming from the other end of the bathroom.

Violet crept to the final cubicle, muffled voices becoming clearer as she approached.  
"Come on Tate, just take it off... you know you want it. How long has it been? How many nights have you spent thinking about me?"  
"Leah, could you be any more pathetic? I'm afraid my big dick just won't work. Because I met someone."  
Shit. That was Tate, in the cubicle with Leah. But why was she throwing herself at- Of course. It was him. Tate was the boyfriend. Violet felt sick, though she knew it was apt: they were both twisted.  
"Don't. Fucking TOUCH ME. You're DISGUSTING, you're NOTHING." Tate roared, and Violet heard him slam the bolt back, taking a deep breath. "And you owe me three hundred dollars."

She scurried back, terrified of what Tate would do if he found her there. Her only escape route was another cubicle, but before she had time to react Tate burst through the door, casting a murderous look at the floor. Violet gasped at his expression, and in that moment, it vanished completely.  
"Violet? What are you..." he said softly. Casting his eyes back to the end of the bathroom, to Leah, he looked shaken, repulsed. "I'm getting out of this shithole. Come with me."

She was taken aback at this odd turn in temperament. He seemed... desperate. Like he was ashamed she had seen him like this; they both knew what he could have done to Leah, could still do. She could shake her head, walk away, and she knew Leah would never bother her again. Violet could even imagine spitting on her grave, telling her parents what their beautiful little girl had done.  
Would that make her a monster? Somehow, she didn't think so.  
What would make her a monster, would be allowing the blood to stain Tate's hands. The hands that she hadn't stopped imagining since that morning: in her hair, on her waist, on her thighs.  
"The devil is beautiful, Harmon. I've looked into his eyes." Leah's voice, small and breathy, rose the farthest stall. It was like a shark scenting blood; Tate's eyes turned cold and empty, and he started back toward Leah - Violet shot out a hand, pushing against Tate's chest.

"Get me out of here." she whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's note: "to love is to destroy" - Cassandra Clare, City of Bones. Also, sorry about the disctinct lack of new chapters this week. Thank you for reading!_

Tate

Most people said, when feeling dramatic, that 'to love is to destroy.' They were wrong. To love is to manipulate. He had learned that at his mother's knee: Addie and Beau were treated in equal parts like monsters and prodigal sons - they tore themselves apart trying to live up to her dreams of perfect, untainted children. Addie still did.

But when Tate held the emergency door open for Violet, or insisted he pay for coffee, that was simply love, right? Basic human kindness: love thy neighbour. He did those things because he had been raised by a woman who still lived in a dream world two storey Virginia microcosm, where manners and decorum were drummed from birth. His teachers always commented on how he had been 'raised right'. A pat on the back from his father, a 1000 watt plastic smile from his mother that melted from her face the second they walked out the classroom door. He was her perfect physical specimen. She expected nothing less, and much more.

In everyday life, small talk was the killer. It was dull, and boredom made it hard to fake. With most people. With Violet, there was no small talk. Without anger or fear, present in their earlier encounters, conversation was stilted at first. But when she began to speak, she had nothing to hide. She seemed perfectly comfortable discussing her family's dirty laundry, the serious soap opera scandal type shit - "so she's what, twenty two? And she has a six month old daughter - my half sister." - with an almost-stranger.

About twenty minutes into their walk, she spun to face him, annoyance written on her face.  
"Seriously, Tate, where are you taking me? I have a feeling if you wanted me to disappear, this is how you'd go about it. And we've been walking for miles." Was it pathetic that the sound of his name on her lips gave him a thrill? Say what you want about psychopaths, but if this was all hormones, who needs emotions?

"First rule of truanting: never take a car. You'd have to be an idiot to skip school and leave your car there. So nobody would, right? The common office lady is an easily confused creature. Her next line of thought is that you're passed out in a bathroom with a fever of 104, and they just haven't found you yet. That, and my car is completely wrecked. Don't drink and drive, kids."  
At that, Violet smirked - christ, that smirk - and began to voice her opinion on Courtney Love.

Their destination? The beach. It was Monday, it was August, it was empty. Violet, for one, was shocked.  
"I thought you were taking me to a crack den. Or some dive bar. Or some other place equally inappropriate for a sixteen year old girl."  
"Today was not the greatest of days, in one way. In another, it was the best day I've had in months. I save the crack dens for something really bad, like failing a math test. God damn calculus."

"You love the beach that much? That it's the highlight of your month?"

"This is where I come when the world gets so small I can't breathe. Which happens more than any shrink can estimate. But then I think of the things, the people, that make me feel that way. Their lives can only go downhill from here. High school is their _peak_. I never wanted that. The people who live in the shadows of that place: they're the ones going somewhere. The meek shall inherit the earth, right?"

"I'm not great with meek. Ask Leah. Try... the evolved."

"Leah. I swear, one less high school bitch making the lives of the less fortunate more tolerable is in my opinion a public service. Just get me a rifle."

"I was wondering when that was going to crop up; the bad day part. What was that, in the bathroom? I'll admit... I was freaked."  
"I thought you, of all people, wouldn't be afraid of anything."  
"Guess I like being scared. There's nothing more vital."

At a seemingly random spot, Tate sat down, gestured for Violet to sit next to him. This was the pivotal point. To lie, for the sake of saving face? Or to take a leap of faith. To trust his instinct; that Violet wasn't as innocent as her little girl lost persona conveyed? That she would understand?

"Leah's a crack whore." - wholly truthful - "She's so obsessed with her reputation that she convinced everyone I was her boyfriend, not her dealer. So I went from the creepy smart kid who ran track and knew a little too much about guns, to Tate Langdon: genius, track star, stud."  
"Why am I not surprised that you're a dealer?" He noticed she had ignored every positive aspect to come out of that sentence. Thanks for the vote of confidence.  
"I wasn't, until Leah started asking around all the wrong circles, desperate to score. She was going to get a bunch of people caught. I saved the day. I wasn't about to let my high-to-be go down the drain."

Violet looked unconvinced. He knew what she was thinking: that he jumped at the chance to go from obscurity to popularity, and the chance to act the part of jock boyfriend. The thought made him sick.

"You heard me today. It's over. The fake relationship, the dealing, the bullshit popularity. There's only so much Bud and pizza over a football game I can stomach. You know that's what they do with their Friday nights? In my opinion, pot is a healthier alternative."

She simply looked at him in silence. He made her nervous, that much he could tell from her blush. But she refused to look down; to back down. So he did the only logical thing he could.

He kissed her.

Violet's face was still set in a frown when his lips crushed against hers, eyes open. Tate felt her try to pull away, shocked, but his hand on the back of her neck - too possessive, he knew, but that couldn't be helped now - stopped her from moving away. She was hesitant; inexperienced; pure. That realisation stopped Tate in his tracks. She'd never trust him now, this boy she had known for a matter of hours. He felt... Guilty. Ashamed. Again.

He pulled back, turning to face out to the sea, hiding his face.

"Violet, I-"

"When you said Leah was a coke whore, was that just a figure of speech?"

"What?" He faced her again, perplexed.

"In the bathroom, she was coming on to you, and she asked how long it had been. Do you call her a coke whore because she's an addict, or because she's literally a coke_ whore_?" Her voice was devoid of inflection.

"We were 'together' for over a year, I mean, that's a long time, and, I mean, she just expected..."

"Take me back to the school Tate. I'd like to go home now."

"But, Vi, we just got here-"

"I'd like to go home. Please." She didn't look at him, only at her hands, voice small but steady.

She can be poison when she wants to. He knows it. But there's no fight in her eyes when she finally looks up at him, only disappointment. There's nothing he can do but stand up, he doesn't speak, because there are no words to dissolve that look in her eyes. Not yet.

See Violet? Psychopaths don't have feelings. They just don't seem to have the wiring quite right.

So why does Tate feel like he wants to scream; to cry; to make her say something, anything?

It takes half the time to make it back to the school. No leisurely stroll in the sun, no jokes, no words.

He turns to leave her at the front steps; he's getting out. Back to Constance and Addie and the stash hidden amongst the vintage porn from the attic, and the complete calm of blackness.

"Tate?" His head snaps up, hopeful, before he registers the same calm, cold indifference he saw at the beach. "Tate Langdon. As in Constance Langdon?" He swallows. He nods, puzzled.

"Then we're neighbours. As in Murder House."


	9. Chapter 9

Violet

She was still a fierce little girl.

Bite your tongue Violet, don't speak; weigh the words carefully before you say them. Don't let him see how the thought of Leah beneath him disgusts you.

Breaks your heart.

The long walk home didn't bother her, not now, not while her mind hummed and her eyes burned. Beneath the revulsion, she felt empty. There was no weight on her shoulders to curve her spine and force her head down, the ever present knowledge that girls like her didn't get happy endings just yet - only a gaping hole where her lungs should be.

That's where the gasping sound was coming from: she wasn't crying, she was suffocating.

She had to get home before he had the chance to catch up with her; she could sequester herself away; she never had to bear the slow burn of his black eyes on her skin again.

So she ran. She flew.

It seemed her feet knew what to do even when she herself didn't: she collapsed the moment she breached her front door. Violet was _exhausted. _The move; the living babies; the dead babies; the angel boy who stole her heart and her first kiss and her reason in a matter of hours. It was too much to bear.

'_I'm so happy, cause today I found my friends, they're in my head.'_

Wouldn't life be easier? If she could just conjure up a confidant, instead of trying and failing to reach people? Kurt's voice and cigarette smoke filled her bedroom, both emanating from the floor where Violet lay sprawled. Her father had samples, right? She could just start popping pills until one of them unlocked an imaginary friend for her. Until she could find something a little stronger than Marlboros to stop her shaking hands and out of service lungs. Air did nothing for her - it was too thick to breathe, like drowning. Cigarette smoke went down smoother. She could only imagine the next step up was pot (the healthier alternative, he had said), and she only knew one person who could get her it, the root of her problem. That would be counterproductive.

Violet hadn't noticed the silence; the distinct absence of everyday hustle and bustle outwith the confines of her bedroom. The key in the lock of the front door was different; she didn't want her father to think she was depressed again. So out with the cigarette, off with the music, up from the floor. Showtime.

She descended the stairs to an impossible sight: Hayden, standing in her hallway.

"Dad, what's going on. Why is she...?"

His face was ashen. Just like that day - was it only a week ago? It seemed absurd that the world could crumble twice in a week - at the hospital. That night at the hospital. That day at the funeral parlour.

"Violet, go sit down in the kitchen. I'll be there in a second, just give me a moment."

Her lungs were back. Now it was her stomach, dropping away from her.

Ben entered, trailing Hayden behind him, as if for support, protection.

"Your mother, Violet, is... sick. She hasn't coped well with losing Jeffrey. None of us have, how could we - but this goes beyond that." he paused to wipe his eyes, "I got back from the grocery store just before my noon appointment - your mother was upstairs changing Michael, or at least I thought she was."

Violet took a deep breath, as her father reached for her hand. She flinched away from his touch.

"Your mother is not in her right mind, Violet. She's unstable. I had no other choice."

"About what, Dad, what did she do?"

"Sparrow, she tried to smother Michael."

For a moment, Violet saw black.

"No, Dad. She would never... Whatever kind of state she's in, she'd never hurt him."

"There was a bottle of pills next to the bed. She intended to smother Michael and then take her own life. She admitted it in the ambulance; she's in the hospital now. They can take care of her now."

"You mean the mental hospital, Dad, is that what you're saying? That you had your own wife COMMITTED?!" Violet spat "And now she's here? To take Mom's place? You saw your chance and you JUMPED AT IT. YOU DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THIS FAMILY!"

She had to get out of this house. She could never leave this house. Her father had shipped her mother of to an asylum, and moved his mistress in to her house.

Vivien thought Ben's infidelity would be the death of their family. Now she was right, just a little later than expected.

Her mother, her brother, the one person in the entire student body who actually seemed to give a shit about her, were gone. One broken, one stolen, one pushed away.

From her perch at the top of the stairs, Violet heard the doorbell ring, and Hayden move to answer it.

A familiar voice floated from the ground floor.

"Please ma'am, can Violet come out and play?"

"I'm sorry, who exactly are you?"

"Tate. And you're Hayden. Student turned homewrecker."

She wouldn't smile. Not even at the furious, incoherent sounds Hayden was making.

More footsteps: Ben was taking charge of the situation. He was, of course, man of the house.

"How dare you knock on this door, a complete stranger, and insult my wi- the woman who is kind enough to answer? I know who you are. Doctor Goldman is a colleague of mine. You're well acquainted with him, I assume. Stay away from this house. Stay away from my daughter."

Slam. Very mature Ben.

She couldn't bear it any longer. She wanted out of this house. Of this joke of a family. Of this dirty disgusting, bullshit world. She had never believed in God, but maybe now she did. She could never comprehend the believers' idea of goodness personified. Anyone with that much power has to be twisted by it. Corrupted: manipulating the weak, the mortal, for kicks. Maybe he was real. Maybe he thought along the same lines as she did.

Violet stormed through her bedroom door. And for my next mood swing, ladies and gentlemen, wrath. Think big; think biblical.

That's all she was: wrath was written across her heart, on the inside of her bones, under the surface of her skin. All she ever was. That ferocity was wrath that didn't know its own shape yet. She was spiky, she was poisonous, she was brave, because she had yet to prove to everyone else how pathetic they were.

Let them look at her with awe. On the fringes, solitary, superior.

Let them look at her with fear. It only made her stronger.

This was what life was about, wasn't it? The driving force? Passion and inspiration and justice was wrath in pretty packaging. Anything worth living for was driven by that, the most basic of instincts.

That's what he was driven by. He understood the way it worked. If he wanted something, he took it. Because selfishness is real. It's almost beautiful, the truth of it.

They would burn each other up. They would destroy one another, but that didn't matter. She was selfish.

She wanted him.


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's note: This fandom is wonderful. Thank you so much for the reads and follows and favourites and reviews. You're all lovely!_

Tate

He was staking her out.

Turning up on her doorstep hadn't been the greatest of ideas, he could admit. But that was the only thing his frantic mind could conjure. When that bitch opened the door, he knew something was wrong. Her presence meant Violet's mother wasn't in the house. Violet was alone.

And that wasn't right. She needed protecting from Hayden, from her father, from herself.

_From you._

He would never hurt her, he would never let anyone hurt her. He could prove that, if she would only speak to him. He spent every morning on the street outside her house, eyes trained on her front door, desperate for a glance of a floral dress or heavy cardigan. A flash of dark gold hair and pale skin. Hazel eyes, thin wrists, sharp tongue. For three days he had kept his morning vigil; this was her last chance.

He was forbidden to enter her house; to see her. That just made him all the more impatient. He knew Ben Harmon by reputation only, but he was surprised he hadn't bridged the gap sooner. Doctor Goldman had tried to pass him off to his colleague before - anyone who would take him, apparently - but Tate never showed, just kept coming back to Goldman. The boy was his personal poltergeist. Until now. Despite the fact Goldman was desperate to be rid of him, he could stomach Tate better than most. But Ben Harmon gave him a way in.

He just had to make sure the good doctor would never treat him again. Desperate times call for despicable measures.

It was nine thirty before Tate gave up on Violet appearing: she could be dead for all he knew, all Ben cared. It was nine thirty one before Tate was climbing the tree outside her window, craning his neck to see if she was inside. Nine thirty two by the time he was through her window - his old window.

Ben had left the house a half hour ago with Hayden and babies in tow; she was alone in the house. He was in Violet's bedroom. From what he could gather, she was in the shower. The discarded underwear and oversized t shirt on the floor was his first clue. The second was the sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom. She was killing him, and she didn't even know she was doing it.

_She knows. She just doesn't care_.

Three days without Violet had taken its toll on him. He barely knew her, and yet she was all he thought about. He lay all day and all night dipping in and out of consciousness, of thoughts and dreams and fantasies of Violet and blood. Not always separately, he was ashamed to admit.

And now he was a foot away from her bed, head filled with images of scalding water running over her body, flushing her white skin pink.

He walked to it, perching on the edge; nervous, expectant.

Her sheets smell like lavender and cigarette smoke and Violet. He wants to bury himself in them.

_You want to bury yourself in_ her.

He heard the water stop. It stopped his heart.

How to scare her? How to shock her? She was mad at him, that much he knew, but it wasn't like a tearful apology was going to get him anywhere. Not with Violet. He settled for stretching himself out on her bed. He fidgeted with his thumb ring while she went about her morning routine. Tate was impatient, but she wasn't to know that. And the fidgeting took his mind off the clothes on the floor.

When Violet opened the door - not wrapped in a towel, as he had hoped, but fully clothed - she gasped, but quickly rearranged her features into an expression of blank indifference. It panicked him.

_You've blown it, dipshit. We knew you would. We told you so._

"Violet I really don't think you take your education seriously. Does Daddy know you're skipping school?"  
"Cut the shit, Tate. Why are you in my bedroom?"

He rose from the bed, crossing the room in three strides. His eyes held hers, and for once he let his conflict show on his face. It felt right, somehow, that she should see what was going through his head. Within reason.

"I was worried. I came to your door as soon as I got home, but your father... Every morning I waited outside your house, I wanted to see you, but you never showed."  
"There's been stuff. I didn't feel like facing your girlfriend this week."  
"What kind of stuff? And I told you, she's not my girlfriend, she's-"  
"A coke whore."  
"Not anymore she's not."

Violet slipped away from him, out of his reach. Across the room to sit on her bed. As she slid to the centre of it, her sweater slipped from her shoulder, revealing bare, pale skin. She wore a dark green sweater and leggings - he fought to concentrate, distracted by the shape of her slender legs.

She tucked her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair, absentmindedly running her fingers over her scarred wrists. They were two of a kind, he could see that now. He did that too: it helped him remember what he used to be. He hadn't cut in a long time. He knew if he did, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He'd be cutting vertically.

"My mom tried to smother the other twin. So Ben shipped her off to a mental hospital, and moved Hayden in to take care of Michael."  
"Shit, Violet, why didn't you tell me? I was right here."  
He lifted her chin with his index finger; there were tears in her eyes, though she bit her lip, trying to stop them from spilling over.  
"No you weren't. I'm all alone, Tate. Everybody left me."  
It finally seemed like her blank silence was over, but this was wrong. This was torture, the quiet, embarrassed sobs forcing their way out of her. He couldn't not.  
"I'm here now. I'm sorry, Violet, this is my fault." she was in his arms. The girl with the sarcastic smirk and poison tongue was crushed into the front of his shirt like she would die if she let go of him.

Was it wrong that he was silently thanking Ben Harmon for being the world's most negligent father?

She looked up at him, and he brushed her hair away from her tear stained cheeks.  
"They were going to send me away, Tate. If Leah doesn't let up, they're sending me to a boarding school. I just can't leave, not now, I need more time."  
They were taking her away. Because of Leah. The crack whore's time had just run out.  
"They can't take you away. If they try, I swear to god... We'll run away."  
Finally, some semblance of a smile. She thought he was joking. He pried her fingers from his shirt - it was difficult, and he relished it - and made towards her window.  
"Look, I have some... things to take care of. Can I see you tonight?"  
Violet nodded, and gave him a small, confused wave.  
"Wait, Tate."  
"Yeah?"  
"It's not really polite, is it? To steal a pair of girls panties."

He grinned. He didn't think she'd notice.


	11. Chapter 11

Violet

The best part of skipping school was finding Tate in her bedroom, panties in pocket. The worst part of skipping school was hearing her father and Hayden go at it in her mother's bed.

So much for a grieving process.

Unlike her father, Violet needed time. Three days of her father's whisky and Anna Karenina. But at the back of her head, her conscience whispered. The ghosts of her morality wore her mother's face, and Tate's. She hated her mother's weakness; she hated the way Tate made _her_ feel weak. And yet she was pestered by guilt. Pestered, not plagued. She was too selfish for that. She couldn't pity the people who left her, not really. The indulgence of three days had served its purpose: she had licked her wounds, she could concentrate on what she _ought_ to feel.

But she didn't think she ought to feel the way she did when she found Tate sprawled on her bed. Her face, blank and tear-stained by turns, masked swollen pupils and a racing heart. There was an angel in her bed.

That was an hour ago. She could still feel the ghosts of his arms around her. She prided herself on thinking on her feet. And maybe she enjoyed playing damsel in distress as much as he wanted to be a knight in shining armour. She meant what she had said; everybody left her. She wanted an escape, but where would she go? She was stranded in uncharted waters; the West Coast ocean of Juicy Couture body spray. Tate was either a life raft, or a shark. Violet was yet to decide.

He'd be back when the sun went down. She could be home by the time she was supposed to be back from school, and Ben's slow, but inevitable suspicion would be quashed.

It must be lonely in the madhouse, she reasoned.

She hadn't wanted to break her vow of silence for something so trivial as curiosity, in the days that followed her mother's supposed breakdown. Instead, Violet settled for rifling through her father's drawers in his office, hoping to find some clue as to where her mother had been committed. There were only two mental hospitals nearby, but of course Ben would want the best care for his wife; he'd pay any price, send her far away as necessary - _possible_ - so she could mend.

In minutes, she found a worn brochure for a _'state of the art facility, which marries the comforts of home with professional, expert treatment',_ less than ten miles from the house. That scheming bastard. He was just waiting for his chance to get rid of her. When she called the clinic, they confirmed that a Vivien Harmon was being treated there. Would Miss Harmon like to schedule a visit?

Within the hour, she was outside her mother's door. Hand on doorknob, forehead pressed against the tiny window in the heavy grey door. Deep breaths Violet. It's your mother, nothing to be afraid of. Even if she did try to kill your little brother.

Knocking softly, she made her way in. The nurse's station was just down the hall, and the receptionist had explained to her that Vivien knew she was coming; it seemed she just didn't have the strength to uncurl herself from the foetal position.

This was wrong. Mothers should be caring and strong and reliable. Not unstable and pathetic and weak. Was it guilt, that crushed Vivien's spirit? Or simply life? Had her mother given up the battle Violet fought every day, with her arsenal of razor blades? Didn't she see how much her daughter needed her? Did she care?

"Mom? I got... excused from class to come see you. To see how you were doing."

She walked around her mother's bed, almost touching the grim grey walls of the room. Her eyes were open, but vacant - Violet knew she did not see her, or the grim walls of her cell.

"Violet?"

She jumped; truthfully, she hadn't expected a response. Her mother looked like a vegetable. Ben always talked about how the mind worked in mysterious ways to protect itself. She presumed her mother was out of it, giving her time to heal.

"It's me. I'm here."

Violet couldn't believe the catch in her voice. Hadn't she emptied all of her repressed tears onto Tate's shirt this morning? Her mother's voice was quiet, soft, but clear.

"Don't leave me, Violet. Don't go back there. I can still hear them now. They'll whisper to you, tell you terrible things. They're so lonely. There's a darkness in it, but they're like children."

This was like something out of a Stanley Kubrick movie. Vivien would be whispering 'red rum' any second, in that odd, little girl voice she was putting on.

"Who, Mom? Who whispers?

"The ghosts."

But Violet, you've always been the caretaker.

"Mom, our house isn't haunted. There's no such thing as ghosts. You know that. Are the nurses here nice? If you like, I can speak to your doctor, make sure you get a break from this room. Don't you miss the cello, Mom? I'm sure they have music here."

"No. You don't understand. I've seen them. They made me smother Michael. They took Jeffrey from me. Nora wanted a baby, and she took mine. Please, Violet, don't go back."

Vivien was gripping her arm now - her once soft hands cracked, long nails bitten down to nothing.

"They told me about that boy. The one with black eyes. They love him. He's just like them. There's a darkness in him that the house fed on. They want him back, Violet. He'll drag you down with him."

"You aren't well, Mom. Dad is... Dad. Tate is my friend. He's been there for me. And when you get out of here, you can meet him, you'll see."

Vivien's grip tightened, and she leaned forward, whispering in Violet's ear,

"They'll take her. Your father's baby. The bastard baby. Get out of there, Violet."

Vivien let out a sigh, resuming her position on the bed. You couldn't tell she had ever moved, ever spoken. Her eyes were as vacant as before.

There was no use staying now; Vivien would do no more talking, she could sense it. The only option was to speak to a nurse, try and puzzle out what was really going on with her mother.

"Michael's doing better by the way. Thought you ought to know. Love you Mom."

She couldn't get out fast enough.

On her way toward the nurses' station, Violet passed three other rooms, all with the same heavy doors, minuscule windows. How did they expect the mentally ill to recover, cooped up like prison inmates? They were already prisoners of their own minds, like her mother.

She could feel her anger building, over the injustice of it all. These people came here for care and respite, and were treated like criminals. When Violet drew level with the nurses' station, she opened her mouth to say something, when she noticed the woman seated behind the computer screen. Her white skin and red hair clashed oddly with the grey walls, her grey uniform. Why was everything in this clinic grey? To symbolise the brain matter of its inmates? This woman was stunning, to say the least. She didn't belong here. The beauty she held was at odds with the sad, sterile nature of the place. Like a corpse flushed out with bleach.

"I was wondering if I could speak to someone regarding my mother? Vivien Harmon? It looks like she hasn't left the room in a long time, and I'd like to know if there's a concrete diagnosis? I mean, she's talking about _ghosts_."

Concrete. Ha ha.

"Look sweetie," there was a bite to the word. "I can't discuss a patient's treatment with anyone under eighteen, even if they are a close family member. That's daddy's job. Your mother is safe here. It could take her a while to realise that, but she will, eventually."

At that, the nurse stood. The loose uniform did nothing for her, but even then, there was no concealing her beauty. Violet could imagine her more easily in one of those nurse uniforms the cheerleaders wore on Halloween, skirts so short they were almost invisible to the naked eye. Naked being the operative word.

"If you ask me, she's perfectly sane. It's those who don't believe her, who are the crazy ones."


	12. Chapter 12

Tate

"Because I'm a dealer and a good one. I've got the best shit in town. God, Leah, do I have to beg? Let me make it up to you, I'm sorry... babe."

So the babe sounded a little flat, but it would make her squirm; that was his convincer. He'd called just before midday, with flowery professions of remorse and undying love, hoping to make the last week up to her. He was the worst boyfriend in the world, and he was lucky she was so kind hearted as to take him back.

_So willing to sell her soul for a line._

They'd meet at the skate rink, he'd take her for a drive, they would park, and he'd give her the drugs. They wouldn't kill her: that would be too obvious. The coke whore was in for a trip. He thinks that deep down she knows he's a psychopath. That he'd kill her if he had half the chance. Leah's got some perverted, romantic notion of what a killer is actually like. She's the Mrs. Lovett to his Sweeney Todd, and she's destined for the fire. He'd expect that from the goth girls at Westfield, the ones who like to dress in black and paint their faces and pretend that they're dangerous. They wear pentagrams and claim their hearts are open to the devil.

_The devil doesn't want your heart, ladies. Just Violet's._

This was just like the dinner where you meet your girlfriend's parents for the first time: you make small talk about your family, and school, and how much of a good influence you'll be on their darling daughter. Except Leah was going to meet his shrink. And she would watch him die. And after that, she'd leave Violet the fuck alone. Or she would be next. All things considered, he was being merciful.

The coke whore was perched on the edge of the rink, as if she was contemplating jumping. That would hardly do much good, she'd break her arm at best, and he'd be forced to crack her skull for her. Like putting an animal out of its misery. He'd turn the rink into an abattoir, and bring Violet back her head. So she'd be safe forever.

Pulling Leah into a one armed hug, Tate's features tightened noticeably, and Leah's eyes grew fearful.

"Somethings changed in you, Tate, towards me."

That was the wonderful thing about being both an avid reader and a psychopath: he had the perfect combination of imagination and sincerity to manipulate almost anyone.

"Do you know why I wasn't in school, Leah? Kyle Greenwell jumped me on my way home on Monday. Grace told him about our... fight. Him and three of his friends. They kicked the shit out of me. The doctor said they cracked a rib. So excuse me if I'm not all over you."

Leah was ugly when she cried. If he'd have known his story would have gotten such a passionate response, he wouldn't have bothered. God, she was pathetic.

"Those assholes. I told Grace not to tell anyone, I can't believe her! It just shows you who your friends are, right?"

She linked her arm with his, gingerly. By the time they arrived at Doctor Goldman's house, Leah's pupils were the size of bottle caps, and she didn't have the sense to ask where they were; she had always followed him blindly.

_This must be heaven for her. She has a chance to get inside your head, while you get inside Doctor Goldman's._

The best part was the struggle. Goldman wasn't a small man, but Tate was a lot stronger than he looked. A little like Beau. But unlike his brother, he did know his own strength. It was his second greatest weapon. Tate had his hands around the man's neck, calmly, quietly. He was too focused on the feel of his pulse to truly savour the doctor's weak attempt to break his hold.

He'd seen Dexter. He knew how to be smart about it. But Tate didn't want to be untraceable. He wanted to carve the experience into Leah's head. That was the only evidence he had to leave behind. The only recognition he needed.

Within minutes he had the good doctor tied to an old rocking chair he'd found in the living room; Leah was waiting on the stairs like a good little girl. Tate thought the chair added a little drama. It was the finishing touches that really made a thing like this worthwhile. When he brought her in, covering her eyes like a parent would a child, he sat her down on the couch, directly in front of Goldman, who was now slowly coming to.

"Leah, meet my psychiatrist. He's really helped me through some tough times. I owe him a lot. You're the best, Doctor Goldman." He gave a bright smile, dimples and teeth flashing, before making his way to the kitchen. By this time, Leah had started to whimper, looking like she was going to hurl any second.

"I seem to remember you telling me your wife was a wonderful cook, Doctor. So where does she keep the _good_ knives? My mother keeps them in her bedside cabinet, but everyone has their little quirks. She thinks I don't know she's terrified of me. It would be sweet, if she wasn't a cocksucker."

He finally located a suitable blade, gleaming and sharp and begging to be dipped in red; it was a wonderful colour contrast. He didn't consider Leah would try to run: she was confused and terrified, and he'd locked all the doors. And stolen her cellphone. And the landline cables.

_You're an AP student, after all._

"Doctor, I know I'm a serious risk. Your scribblings don't go unnoticed. So nobody wants to take me on. Not while you're willing to treat me. When you're dead, someone will have to step up to the plate; it's not like I can just be released into society, not in this state of mind. I want Doctor Harmon. Sorry."

He turned to Leah, eyes wide, and started laughing. He was laying it on thick, with all the master villain talk, but it seemed to be working. Goldman was silent, still groggy, but aware of what was going on around him. Leah was shaking violently. Odd, how quiet she was, now of all times.

His movements were sudden, just like he planned. With one flash of the knife he cut deep into Goldman's cheek, then into the other. He wanted to carve his face, make him a monster. Let the world see the inside of Tate's head mapped out on flesh. The doctor began to struggle, and Leah sucked in a lungful of air, making to scream. Tate turned, grasping her hair, dragging her up from the couch.

"You will stay quiet. If you make one sound, he dies. Then you die. And I walk away." He hissed into her ear, releasing her as she sank to the ground, sobbing. This should have elicited some sympathy from him, but all he could think of were Violet's tears, when she thought her father was going to take her away.

"You're willing to claw your way to the top of the pile every day. I've seen the scars you've given people. And now you can't take a little blood? A few cuts? I've done worse to myself."

He had to finish this. And quickly. All he wanted to do was get back to Violet. The voices were screaming now; he had spilled blood, and they were starving. He felt guilty for letting them suffer so.

It was like the knife moved of its own accord. The blood on Goldman's face hadn't even clotted, and now he was dead, throat slit, blood pouring and rippling down his neck. It was done.

She was safe now.


	13. Chapter 13

Violet

There had been someone in her house. Ben and Hayden were still out, exercising self control for once, resisting the draw of her mother's bedroom. There was a chance that her father had been creeping in her room - that had always been her mother's job, and Violet usually pretended not to notice. It gave Vivien peace of mind when her search came up empty, and Violet was happy to devise impossible hiding places if it kept her parents off her back.

But her dresser was the only thing disturbed, the shallow drawer where she kept her tiny make up collection closed firmly. Violet, in her haste to catch her bus to the clinic, had left it half open.

"Who's there?"  
A stifled giggle from under her bed. Violet ducked down, an irritated expression on her face. It was obviously a neighbourhood kid, playing makeover. In a stranger's bedroom. A dare, then.  
"What are you doing under my bed?"  
In the shadow, Violet couldn't make out the little girl's face, and quickly she turned, wriggling out. Straightening up, Violet could see that this was no little girl, although with her baby doll dress and garish make up, you could be easily fooled. The woman in front of her must have been twenty at least.  
"He said you were a pretty girl. He told me about you. Just me." She whispered, walking toward Violet, as if she was confessing a secret.  
"What's your name?"  
"Adelaide Eleanor Langdon." Her sing song voice was eerie, just like her mother's had been at the clinic.  
"You're Tate's sister?" At that, Adelaide's face lit up, as she nodded furiously, ringlets bouncing. "That doesn't really explain why you were in my room though. Or in my drawers." Adelaide had begun walking around the room, running her hands over Violet's comforter, the walls, the chair in the corner.  
"I was... waiting for Tate." Her words were stretched out strangely, slowly then all in a rush.  
"You found me." Tate appeared by the window, seeming to have climbed in while Violet watched Adelaide trace patterns on her walls.

"Why aren't you at the house, Addie? What are you doing in Violet's room?" his voice hardened. It wasn't the anger she had seen towards Leah, but more like a parent who caught their child drawing on the walls.  
"The house is empty. Lawrence took Mom out to dinner."  
"Addie, you can't be here. I'm not even supposed to be here. Go back to the house, you can watch TV in my room. If they get home and ask, I said you could. Ok?"  
Addie pouted, stomping out.

Tate ran a hand through his hair, curls bouncing back into place. He opened his mouth to speak, but Violet rushed out,  
"How come you never said you had a sister?" Tate's face turned guilty.  
"Addie's a handful. The Downs is one thing, but she's _wilful_. She was half in high school, and half in special needs groups... The kids at school were shitheads. And I don't like to tell people about that, because if I do, I have to tell them about... the thing."  
He hung his head, and slumped against Violet's headboard.  
"Four seniors locked her in the janitor's closet. They covered the walls in mirrors. She freaked out. Her nurse came to pick her up at lunchtime, and there was this huge search. She broke a couple; she was covered in blood."  
When he looked up at her, his eyes were empty. Their blackness was cold. She moved to hold his hands in her own; he flinched away, but then seemed to flicker back to life, realising what she was trying to do. It seemed she was failing; his eyes pooled with tears.  
"I asked around, figured out who did it. I should have gone to the cops, but... It was like I was possessed. I can barely remember doing it. I put one of them in a coma. Another bled to death. I stabbed him with a shard of a mirror. It seemed so right at the time, like poetic justice. The other two realised they would be next; they moved out of state. I was fifteen."  
Violet reached up to touch his face, brushing his cheeks with her sleeve.  
"I haven't been honest with you, and it's tearing me up. I'm a bad person. I'm a psychopath, Vi. The doctors just won't admit it. I've been on meds since I was twelve; they spout this bullshit about chemical imbalances, but what they're trying to say is that I'm a monster."

She was silent for a moment, but met his eyes.

"You are not. A monster. You're the most incredible person I've ever met. We're the same, Tate."  
"We're not the same, Vi. You're attracted to the darkness. I _am_ the darkness. And you've known me what, five days?"  
"You're my best friend."

The look in his eyes was so hopeful, and yet so self loathing. What could he have to hate himself for? He didn't scare her. In that moment, she was proud of him. He was her avenging angel. At age fifteen, he put a senior in a coma. She knew about adrenaline rushes, but this was something else. A small, snide voice in her head whispered how the insane were often capable of incredible acts of strength, but she ignored it.

Violet didn't want to dwell on it, but the vision of Tate making those assholes suffer was...

In her head, his wings were black to match his eyes. He towered above them and made them scream. He made them beg for death. When it was done, he didn't bother to wipe the blood spatter from his face. It stained her lips when they kissed.

"You only have one friend." her hand was pulled from his; she smacked him over the head. "What was that for?!"

"For insulting me when I was being compassionate and supportive."

"I'm sorry. It's such a rare occurrence I was caught off guard."

He flashed her a dimpled smile, all trace of tears gone, pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands. It was such a little boy gesture, and coupled with his unruly hair, he looked so innocent.

Her father would say that was because psychopaths are master manipulators.

He crossed his legs, and held her hands in his lap. Pushing her sleeves up, he ran his thumbs softly across her scars.

"They're like ladders."

"Or train tracks." He didn't miss the meaning behind her words.

"Have you ever tried, like really tried? Not just testing how deep you can go before you can't stand it."

"When we moved here, everything was just crazy. I mean, my dad said LA was a fresh start for the family. But there's no such thing. We _really_ moved here because Hayden wanted to be close to her parents and her sister; my Dad wanted to be a part of the kid's life. My mother moved across the country for her husband's mistress. I just wanted to... not exist for a while. I wanted to hibernate through all the bullshit. And I did. I cut and I smoked and I drowned out the screaming with music. I turned it up louder when I heard my mother crying."

"It's not your responsibility to weather your parents through shit like this. I know a little about psychiatric wards. They wouldn't keep her there if she didn't have to be there. And those places are depressing as hell, but they replace the everyday struggle with peace and quiet. That's all your mom needs."

His voice was quiet. His eyes were soft. His hands were warm.

The silence of the room warred with the insistent voice in her head, that repeated over and over, 'I love you' - it was stuck, and she could think of nothing else. She thought it would force its way out of her lips. It was irrational. Like he said, she had known him five days. But her head was filled with fog and that voice; she was beginning to believe it.

"You're cute when you blush." Her head snapped up.

"I'm not blushing. I'm warm. You try living in California with four layers grafted to your skin."

"I'm wearing three. And tights and a skirt only count as one layer. So we're even."

His thumb hadn't stopped bumping over her scars, but he paused at the bottom of her wrist.

"And your pulse is going crazy."

"You just told me you killed someone. Aren't I allowed to be shocked in the least?"

His thumb stopped.

"Of course. But you're lying."

She pulled away from him, turning instead to where her iPod was connected to a speaker.

"Want to listen to Morrissey? He's cool, and he's pissy, and he hates everyone and everything."

"I know you've got some Kurt Cobain on that thing."


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's note: Writing Tate is the best fun. Because it really is like he's possessed; when he's being evil he can just spit in everyone's face and steal Violet's underwear and slash people's throats, then make some sarcastic comment about it that's half cheesy and half disturbing. And I think this is about as smutty as it's going to get for them. Mainly because I would rather leave it out than let it fall flat._

Tate

"What do psychiatrists think about when brilliant patients don't talk to punish said psychiatrist? I bet you think about sex. With Vivien, or with Hayden? I guess that's the benefit of experience. A lot of material. I like to think I make up for that in imagination, you know?"

"This isn't exactly relevant to your treatment, Tate. Unless... Does thinking about sex help you cope with the visions, the - ah - urges?"

More notes. The whirring sound of the recorder used to be soothing, like white noise. Now, he just associated it with the awkward silences that filled the office; in these instances, Ben didn't want or need Tate to talk. He just observed him. How the littlest things affected him. Doctor Harmon was goading him. He was a sick son of a bitch, always plotting, just like Violet said. Her father was setting him up, persistently pushing him to the point where he could envision, so clearly, reaching across the coffee table and snapping his neck.

Ben was, in his heyday, a jock; that much he could tell from his personality alone, and the photographs on the walls confirmed his suspicions the first time he had stepped foot in the office. But he was the kind of jock who liked to think himself one of the masses. Nobody could say he was a bully, or a meathead, like his friends. Because Ben Harmon cared. Ben Harmon was _different_.

Ben Harmon's muscles had turned to fat, which wouldn't shift no matter how much he jogged. He was smaller than Goldman, shorter than Tate. He could take him.

"Actually, yes. At the point of orgasm, the human body is incapable of processing emotion. It cuts out all the fear and the anger. Not even your prescriptions can do that, Doctor."

"And do you have anyone in your life that you care for? A girlfriend?"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're smarter than that."

"I'm your psychiatrist first, Tate. If I can remember that, so can you. This is a safe space."

How many jargon phrases could he spout in their allotted hour? God damn, he was smart. Not smart enough that Tate didn't see his plan as completely transparent, obviously. But their minds worked the same way. The doctor had a way of worrying at the little holes that riddled your head which Tate admired. It was surprisingly subtle, for a shrink.

"You want to know about that kind of fantasy, Doctor? Are you sure?"

There was a glint in Ben's eye. They both knew Violet was behind the door. He thought that his little girl would run scared from the big nasty boy who wanted to steal her away from her daddy.

Tate knew that this little girl was running _to_ him, whether he chose it or not.

He flicked his eyes to the door, apparently involuntarily. He would look nervous, embarrassed, that she had him by the balls and he liked it. In reality, it was all he could do not to shout it from the rooftops. To whisper it into her ear and run his fingers over the smoke trail of her shiver, fingertips ghosting the bumps in her spine.

He told Addie about her ten times a day while they were apart. She lapped the stories up, desperate for the next instalment in the life of a pretty girl. He omitted the bullies who've never even looked at her since his little stunt with Leah. He turned her laddered wrists into battle scars, stories where the Princess was just as good with a sword as any knight, and he made Addie laugh and squeal when he was being silly and saying that one day Violet'll be her sister because one day they'll get married. Addie can wear a fancy dress and drop petals on the aisle.

He settled back into the black leather chair, fingernails digging into the arm rests. This would be fun. He and Violet had never really gone beyond furtive kisses in the library or her bedroom, in the weeks that followed Goldman's death. In which time, he had been transferred to Doctor Harmon, for his sins. She was reaching up for a book on the top shelf of the Classics section, when he grabbed her for the first time. An anonymous pair of arms reaching out from the stacks, chapped lips and curls that brushed her face. She was hesitant again, almost childlike. What were his hands doing running over her waist, in her hair? She never put her hands anywhere else but his chest. He liked to think she was searching for his heartbeat.

She was poised to push him away.

He had to know. He had to know whether his open access to her lips was paid for with pity, or with need. She'd know that he wanted her. There would be no question. She couldn't possibly be shy around him, not anymore, not when he poured out the contents of his filthy mind for her to pick apart, she what she liked, turn it into reality.

It was like a diving board over the Baltic Sea at midnight, the words on the tip of his tongue. They'd spill over and be swallowed up by the thrashing blackness below, or they'd swan dive and paint pictures in red and white in her mind's eye. Either way, he'll have her shaking. Because he knows that she ashamedly wants to be wanted, that she thinks the kisses are just a knee jerk reaction to a warm body in a silent library.

Don't worry, Doctor. Your little girl will be serving her virginity to me on a plate.

He tells Ben that he'd lay her down on the bed, caress her soft skin, make her purr like a little kitten.

He'd trap her wrists above her head; she's wound so tight she's almost shaking, as his tongue searches behind her teeth, he's sharing his breath that's so wrapped up in hers all he can taste is cigarettes, and he loves it. She's a nicotine kick.

The layers are the hardest part. He's torn between tearing them and sliding them over her skin, opting to blind her the moment he finally sees, when her shirt is off and the tiny body she secretes under cotton, wool and lace, is on display for him.

He absentmindedly removes his own clothes, too wrapped up in fixating over her rabbit in the head lights, fallen prey, doe eyes to remember that she might just want to see him as much as he sees her.

She's a virgin. They get wet so easily.

He'll make her bleed and he'll leave his mark on her: a handprint splayed over ribs that ripple under her skin, the crescents of his teeth on her hips. And she won't know they're there, because her eyes are rolling back and she's begging with what little oxygen she can suck in through gasps, and all she can feel is the heat, because he's burning her up. Like paper. She's blackening at the edges and there's a line of brilliant fire between the black and the untainted white. It's spreading and soon the paper's ash, too soft to hold its shape, unravelling and drifting in the breeze of his breath.

And then he really gets excited because Ben Harmon's cringing in his chair and there's a certain silence outside the door that means she's holding her breath.

But he's a tease.

"Hour's up, Doctor Harmon. Remember to tune in next week."


	15. Chapter 15

Violet

Ben's bullshit ultimatum had shifted. Which was precisely the opposite of an ultimatum, in essence. It's final, unmoving, loop-hole free, permanent.

So the school had called about her skipping. Short was on the case; she felt she had a bond with Violet, ever since her stunt in the hallway, the day she met Tate. Tate, who was apparently the problem. Not the dead sibling, lunatic mother, adulterous father, but the person who kept her sane. Who cared for her, loved her, protected her from herself and her poison family. Ben acted the part of concerned, shocked father. As if he didn't know she had been holed up in her bedroom for weeks. But didn't Violet want to go to college? What happened to her dreams of the East Coast? Was she seriously considering staying here for some boy?

Violet shut her bedroom door in his face and he didn't speak to her for three days. She still didn't go to school. Why would she, when there was Scrabble to be played and cigarettes to be smoked? When there was a boy waiting for her with a smirk on his face and an all-knowing look that crooked its finger and pulled her back into his arms.

He loved her. He told her so, while his fingers traced her wrists and she answered his question with a breathless "Intense." She knew that he knew she spied on him in that session with her father. And that the sound she made as she tripped up the stairs was almost accidental, but not quite. Self fulfilling prophecy. Both generations of the Harmon family watched him walk down the street, turn into his house. If Ben had paid attention, in the desperate, observant, hopeful way Violet had, he would have seen him double back.

And when Tate caught her with flushed cheeks and ragged breaths and skin laid bare, it was almost accidental, but not quite. It was staged, and it was perfect. Tate wasn't the only one who craved control.

Then Short called and Ben flipped and Violet gave in. Mainly because Ben had put a steel bolt on the basement door. But also because she'd be packed off to boarding school if she didn't show her face at Westfield again.

She'd give them a show.

They walked hand in hand down the hallways. He pressed her up against the lockers between classes, because it made people stare and Violet laugh. When she fell behind in Chem, he offered his services as a tutor. Her grades didn't improve, but she had always been stubborn, right Dad?

Tate had this huge black military jacket in the back of his closet. She went searching for a t shirt to wear, and found it hiding in a dry cleaning bag. It was all pockets and buckles, and it swamped her. But it was hers the second she saw it.

"Just like me."

That boy was sickeningly sweet sometimes. And it made her happy. Such happiness couldn't be real. There was always doubt in the back of her mind, an almost untraceable, silent panic. He was two completely different people, and she loved both of them. John Keats and Charles Manson. But was she Fanny Brawne or Sharon Tate?

She knew about the drugs, the fights, the fantasies. She just didn't care. That scared her more than the stories themselves: he was righteous and pure in a way that no-one understood, and there would come a day when that would be just enough to tear them apart. The fear was like waves in her ears, water in her lungs, darkness and death. The cutting was nothing, in comparison.

She was furtive, just like when she was younger, and it worked, for a time. But then his romantic gestures got the better of her. She was in the bathroom, red running down her arms, when he swooped in and presented her with a black rose. She almost took it, before it fell to the ground.

"You're _mutilating_ yourself. You promised me, Violet."

His eyes burned, and his hands around her shoulders were gripping tight enough to bruise.

"You do it." She sounded like a petulant child, but there was nothing to stop the words tumbling from her lips.

"Not anymore. I thought you were happy. With me."  
"I am, Tate but-"  
"But what, Vi? What bullshit excuse can you possibly give me for carving yourself up like a fucking _animal_?"

Tears fell from her eyes, and when she blinked them away, he was gone. She could hear him clattering down the hall, fists dragging and pounding against the walls. When he got to the stairs, she ran to her bedroom, slamming the door. This was it. She was pathetic; he hated her; she'd never see him again.

Violet could hear raised voices from downstairs - he'd been caught. It hardly mattered anyway. As if he'd have any reason to come back. Didn't Ben get it? But there was crashing. And she heard a woman scream. Hayden. If he hurt her, she'd press charges. He'd be gone forever.

She rushed downstairs, screaming his name, and ran toward Hayden's screams. She saw her, cowering on the floor while Tate stood above her, shaking. But why were her clothes ripped?

"He's a FUCKING LUNATIC! He went for me, grabbed me... Ben-"

Her father rushed into the room, eyes wild. When he saw Tate, he lunged forward, fist cracking against Tate's jaw. When he fell, Violet sagged to the floor, blood seeping through her sleeves - she grabbed his arm, saw the tears in his eyes.

"Vi..."

She shook her head, praying he'd be quiet and Ben would just make them leave.

"Ben, he was going to _rape_ me. Get him away from me, he's a monster!" Her voice shook, and tears tracked her face. This was... No. He would never. He loved her. He was a good person.

"Get out of my house before I call the police. If I ever see you again, I swear to God I will kill you." Ben spat in Tate's face, and Violet tugged at his arm. She had to get him out of here. They had to go.

She grabbed his hand and ran out of the basement door. When she reached for the keys, he grabbed her hand. Then he put his hands on her cheeks, pressing his forehead to hers. She could see him shaking.

"She's lying, Violet. She cornered me as I was going out the door. She threw herself at me. When I said no she started screaming, and... This is all so wrong. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm disgusting. I just couldn't bear for you... You can't do this, Violet." he grabbed her wrist, kissing the bloodied skin. She jerked her arm away, making her eyes cold.

"Leave, Tate. Before I call the police myself."

...

She was numb. She had sent him away, and the look in his eyes made her blood turn to ice. Hayden had some sick Mrs. Robinson fantasy, and it had cost her everything.

He thinks I hate him. He thinks I believe that crazy bitch.

Violet was on lockdown. Apparently Ben had more faith in her need for Tate than Tate himself - Ben knew she'd find him the second she was out of the house. But he couldn't stop her going to school. She'd find him, explain that she had to make him leave. They'd run away.

They'd escape from this madhouse, this bullshit town.

Live happily ever after.


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's note: __I'm going to say this before and not after. I've still got an epilogue to go. Thank you for reading!_

Tate

_she hates you you're worthless you said you'd protect her and look at where she is now she'll never forgive you she thinks you tried to rape her father's mistress we don't blame her look at you you can barely protect her from yourself let alone anything else she gave you everything and you threw it back in her face she started cutting because of you you make her feel dirty tainted disgusting she's just as pathetic as you she lapped it up she's as twisted as you are she's_

He's trying and failing to block it out; to stop himself reaching for a rusty blade and a bag of white powder. To stop himself hunching over his desk, pushing and sorting it into neat lines that look nothing like what's going on inside his head, and choke down a handful of pills that are bound to make his heart a time bomb. To stop himself counting the bullets and assigning a name to each one. Looking in the mirror and seeing a face that looks like his but doesn't, huge pupils that swallow up his eyes and look no different to an innocent bystander. They've always been dark. She said they were like something out of a horror film. Most babies are born with blue eyes, but not him. Windows to his soul circa 1994.

He's been awake for two days, every night spent under her window with hands full of pebbles. There's been no light at her window, no movement of her curtains, nothing, for two days. His control's been slipping ever since she slammed the basement door in his face.

_she had every reason no wonder she's disgusted by you everyone's disgusted by you you're the monster not Addie not Beau not even Constance_

But he'll show her, he'll prove himself to her, she'll take him back, she'll _get_ it. If there's one thing literature's taught him, it's that every tragic hero needs a grand gesture. He's her angel of death; he'll lay their souls and his at her door.

He's wearing the jacket he found under her window, as if she'd thrown it out. It still smells like her. It makes it easier. He doesn't think he'll make it out in time if he hits a classroom. Too many doors, too many people. Not enough escape routes. The corridors are enough. He won't stop, just breeze through and kill on sight. What a shame for all those who struck lucky with a lavatory pass.

Then he'll take the library because there should be enough people there to satisfy the voices and his desperation to play Romeo, but not enough that someone would think to be a hero. He's got to consider the odds. If he can put a couple of holes in that fucker who called her a slut last week then that's a blessing. Or the goth girl who told her to stay away from him. She's got it coming, and if it's not him then one day she's going to run into a knife because there's got to be some semblance of balance in the world.

_that's all you are you're balance dark to her light she gets it she loves it she wants to be corrupted she's as filthy as you are_

The bag's over his shoulder and he's stepping into a pair of his father's boots and the irony's just so striking. The man who ran away from his wife and the son who's running away from the world. He's out the door of the bedroom that's never been his, not as much as hers feels like home. He's onto the street and he's head to toe in black; it's sucking in the light like a vacuum.

He tells himself she's waiting at the corner, or that she's coming up behind him. She'll slip a hand into his and drag him back to the cool darkness of her bed.

He can see her now, how she'd stand, cigarette in hand, sucking down smoke like she'd die if she stopped, her version of wringing her hands or tapping her foot or any normal nervous habit.

Because she knows what's in his pockets and his backpack and she'd notice that his eyes are a little bit wider and his skin a little paler. She'd clamp his hands in hers to stop them shaking. Why won't he stop shaking? He's burning up and his heart is racing and he won't _stop_ _shaking_.

But she'd pretend, tip her hat and smile and run to him, the glorious reunion, and her eyes would widen, her face would pale she'd whisper,

"Tate, what did you do? Why... why is there a gun sticking out of your backpack, Tate look at me, did you take something?"

She's so strong but she's just too small and she's half carrying him, half dragging him, starting to cry, and he wants to tell her that it's ok, that if any of this was real she'd hate him anyway. That he knows she doesn't want this kind of blood on her hands but he does because he's been dead for two days and he had to find some way to feel alive again.

That he loves her and he knows that she might not love him but it doesn't matter because she saved him. That there's no point in living when there's no light, when he's blind and deaf in the crushing weight of darkness and the cacophony of voices in his head.

He knows if he wasn't so far gone he'd realise that he wasn't really on her bed, her hands in his hair, on his face, that he couldn't really hear her screaming his name. That she couldn't be crying for him because she hates him.

There's a sound like a wounded animal and it might be coming from him and it might not because his nerve endings are fried and he doesn't think that his body's connected to his brain any more.

For that he's thankful, because while his head's somewhere else he's with Violet.

He must have collapsed in the street because he can hear a girl's voice saying ambulance. He's still telling himself it's Violet but he knows that it can't be.

And then he hears the word police and he doesn't know how he does it but some sort of switch flicks in his brain and he realises that of course, this girl found the guns.

He's stumbling but there's a pistol in his hand that feels like ice that's slick with sweat that may or may not have any bullets in it.

The girl has her face, because he's not blessed, he's damned and God enjoys a joke. Something or someone has reached into his head and he feels half sick and half grateful. Maybe that's his reward for years of suffering; this final chance to see her face.

But the girl is crying and so is he and Violet's so pretty when she cries. He wants to taste her tears but it's not her and he's not stumbling down her hall and he's not knocking over Doctor Harmon's photo frame to get to the phone.

He's not pressing the barrel to Violet's head, just some girl off the street, since Violet's at school, where she should be. He knows this because he prayed she wouldn't be there, that she'd stay home, and his prayers are never answered.

"You want them to send me away, Violet? Do you want me to go away?"

It's not Violet's blood on the floor, or her corpse but he holds it anyway because this girl's hair smells almost like hers, until he starts to spasm and jerk and he can't hold on anymore.

He's not dying in a pool of his own vomit and Violet's blood because he might have prayed for that too.


	17. Epilogue

Vivien

"Mrs. Harmon I know you don't want to get up, but your husband dropped this off and I refuse to dress you while you lie down."

She's pretending she can't hear because if they think she's catatonic then they might not make her go back to that house.

She's anything but; she's a storm of grief and guilt folded over and wrapped so tightly inside of her that she doesn't need tears to be crying any more. They think she's silent but she screams from the moment she wakes up to the moment she pretends to wake up again - she can't remember the last time she slept, or ate, or spoke.

Her babies are dead, or they're not her babies anymore and they're here with her in the grey cell of her mind, the grey cell of her body, the grey cell of her concrete home.

Moira told her Violet was murdered and she passed out. They didn't notice.

She woke up to '_Where's my baby?_' and cracked Nora's skull on the floor from the comfort of her bed. They didn't notice. Moira speaks at her, not to her, and says she hasn't moved on her own for weeks.

But then Nora wakes up and tells her that Violet's in the house, she's pining for her mother, that the boy with the black eyes shot her in the head and filled his own stomach with poison.

It's the first thing Vivien says when she starts showing some sign of life and Moira goes very still.

She's still not sure whether it's because she spoke, or because of what she said.

A policeman came to speak to her because her doctor said she needed a real explanation.

He gave her a note in Violet's hand writing. He said they found it in that boy's jacket. He hadn't found it, since the envelope was still sealed shut.

_I had to get you out of the house, I'd never have forgiven myself if Ben called the cops on you. He won't let me back into my room, he says he can't trust me not to let you up. I'm in the guest bedroom - you know which one it is. _

_I love you, _

_Violet_

And Vivien screamed at herself for three days. She killed her daughter; she hadn't done enough. She was selfish, and her baby was dead.

But she let Moira wash her hair and button her into a black dress that Ben had most likely forgotten she hated.

She let them drive her to that house in a car that was black or silver or blue or red or something.

She let them lead her to the coffin.

They let her press a hand to Violet's cheek, and pulled her away when her fingers crept to the bullet holes.

They let her take a moment alone with Violet's things.

She let herself whisper '_Violet_.'

She did not let herself scream when she got a reply.

**fin**

_Author's note: Thank you to everyone who read, followed, favourited and reviewed. I messaged everyone who reviewed, and I don't know my thanks got to everyone, but I did send them, promise. Obviously I can't message guests, so thank you to Sarah v, AhsFan, Lu, Trish and Nadia Kanna01!_

_And I'd like to take this opportunity to shamelessly plug my other stories, so if you liked this one, give my other AU's a read._

_I'm actually really sad that's over. I started crying writing the last chapter. Thank you so much for reading!_


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